First Impressions
by MrsNoggin
Summary: John looks back now and wishes he had done more than stand with his mouth open, gawping like a suffocating fish. Rated T for language. One-shot. UPDATED with chapter 2 - Holmes...
1. John

It was not the best first impression. Sherlock most likely disagreed. He was satisfactorily impressive, he liked the flare of the dramatic. Liked letting John know he knew everything. Except he didn't. Not quite. Even the simplest man can have secrets.

John looks back now and wishes he had done more than stand with his mouth open, gawping like a suffocating fish. Sherlock ruled him. The first sly knowing look he had swept over him as he followed Mike into the dimmed laboratory, to the arrogant wink at the door, the presumption, the fact that he knew John would jump at the chance to be at his side, in his flat, in his life. And, damn him, he was so right.

He had volunteered his phone before he had even thought. Of course he would, that was the type of man he was. Had Sherlock anticipated that, or was it a test in itself? Had he needed to check John's generous selfless nature before he allowed him in? To determine the compatibility of their personalities. To know if he would be a help or hindrance. Or perhaps it was simply to garner more information, _data_. Sherlock's greedy eyes had given the phone a once over, his eager gaze flicking over the outstretched hand, the shortened reach and slight tremor belying the stress of the movement. He absorbed tan lines, posture, scars, the defiant lift of his chin as he registered the sweep of scrutiny.

"John, _John_, the pen, John, the pen."

John's reverie was rudely interrupted, as usual. It felt like he never got a chance to even reminisce anymore. It was as if Sherlock sensed him leave the room and sink into memories and dashed to pull him back. As if he couldn't bear the thought that John had something better to think about than him. Except he _was_ thinking about him, but then, Sherlock's talents had yet to stretch to mind reading. He hoped.

"Get your own sodding pen," he muttered. But he was already reaching for it and flicking it over the desk. His feigned irritation flared into genuine for a second when Sherlock simply held the pen in his hand, making no move to actually do anything with it. But it only lasted that one second before he realised the futility of the emotion and looked back down to his newspaper.

When he glanced up a moment later Sherlock had the pen held between his nose and top lip like a moustache while he pondered some mysterious issue and John could only smile. As he often did. Struck by this marvellous man.

What else was there to do?

ooooo000O000ooooo

_I've needed to write this for so long. My first published fic, so please review and let me know where I'm going right/ wrong._

_Thinking of doing Sherlock's first impressions, but not quite sure how to approach it. Still not entirely sure what they were! _


	2. Sherlock

_**First Impressions, part II - Holmes** _

_I wasn't going to do this - my Sherlock's POV is not the best... But it was requested and I couldn't help it. _

* * *

Sherlock deleted useless memories. There was no space for them in the mind palace. It needed to be well kept, maintained, with information ready to be snapped up at a moment's notice. He had a small space though, kept for a little nostalgia, though he would never admit it. Every now and then he delved into it and came up trumps – sometimes what he needed was right there. Even a genius can discard useful information once in a while...

One boring morning, he dipped his head in to that reminiscence room to find something easy to ponder. And found John, as usual, but on a day long ago...

Ah, Stamford, back again. He had spoken earlier to him, so no need to acknowledge him, or perform social niceties. Although, he was accompanied this time. A slim man, handsome in an unconventional kind of way, held himself nicely – mid thirties, but tired. No signs of a long journey, so insomnia perhaps? Nightmares? Oh, a walking stick and limp, together with the weary body. A patient. Boring.

"Oh, bit different from my day," A nice deep voice, sure of himself, though a little uneasy. An effect of Sherlock's own presence perhaps? His words were significant. He was a doctor then, trained a while ago. Colleague. No, not that familiar – _ex-_colleague.

Sherlock was rarely a patient man, especially now. He had this last bit figured – the paint, the chemical reactions happening right in front of him. No time for forced pleasantries even in the presence of a reunion of old friends. "Mike, can I borrow your phone, no signal on mine."

The stranger offered his own. A sign of generosity, or simple feigned politeness? A quick glance at Stamford showed no surprise on his face at the kindness. This man was often kind then, generous.

"An old friend of mine, John Watson," Stamford offered the desired information. No title, not a practising doctor then.

Sherlock approached, taking the offered phone. His eager eyes swept over the mystery in front of him. _John Watson_. He stood a few inches shorter than Sherlock, but held himself straight – confident, almost... ah ha – military. And still he was still standing, so no pain in that leg now, or it was hidden well. He took in the required details, and formed the basic recent history of the man in a split second. Had Stamford brought him here as a potential flatmate? Of course – old friend, recently injured in service, would need somewhere to live.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" But Watson was not confused. He had heard the question. He was one of those annoying people who questioned the question to have more time to find an answer, or to put off answering altogether. Stamford was smug. He had known Sherlock would do this. Watson still did not reply. Curious...

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" The text message was sent and he took the opportunity to glance over the phone, noting the marks on it, the most commonly used buttons.

John did not look at the phone when he took it back. Good, not nosey then. He could have checked what Sherlock had just done, but chose not to.

Molly was an unwelcome intrusion. He was busy, he wanted to figure this man out, this _John Watson_. He took a gulp of his coffee (too hot), enjoying the look of confusion on John's face. Hang on, when had he become John, rather than just Watson? That was a surprise. In that second Sherlock realised he wanted to spend a lot more time deducing this man. Interruptions were unwelcome, bearing coffee or not. _This_ was his new flatmate.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

* * *

_Reviews most welcome, please! _


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